


Lacuna

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-SR, Starsky calls Hutch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacuna

You have to dial eight to get out, just like at Metro. He's been here three days, and the only calls he's made so far have been to the front desk, once to ask for more towels and last night when he was drunk and lonely and wanted to talk to the pretty girl he'd seen checking people in when he'd gone out to buy a newspaper. She was busy, and told him rather icily to leave her alone or she'd call the cops. He hasn't had many laughs since he's been here, but that was one. He's been longing to call the cops himself -- _a_ cop, anyway -- and now he finally can.

Hutch answers on the second ring. His hello is clipped, impatient, as it often is. But he's home, at least. Starsky hadn't been sure what shift he'd be working.

"Hey," Starsky says.

"Hey," Hutch replies, and his voice is suddenly soft. It's not angry or accusatory, and Starsky lets his head sink down on the thin pillow and blinks gratefully up at the ceiling.

"Been three days," he says. "You markin' the calendar?"

He can picture Hutch's little smile, the downswept eyelashes. "Don't need to. Do you?"

"Haven't got one. I just watch the sun come up and then watch it go down again, and I know another day's gone by."

There's a silence, and then he hears Hutch sigh, a soft whisper that tickles his ear. He turns on his side until the phone is wedged between his ear and the pillow. Hutch somehow seems a little closer that way.

"Starsk, you're okay, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's terrific here, got a color TV, got complimentary shampoo, and the ice machine's way on the other side of the building, so the noise doesn't bother me. You know that noise it makes when somebody fills up their bucket? I don't have to worry about that."

Hutch laughs. "Sounds like you've got it made, buddy."

Starsky doesn't laugh. "Hutch, I wanna come home." He doesn't like the way his voice sounds, the hollowness of it.

"Starsk..." Hutch begins, and trails off. After a moment he continues. "I don't want you to think I'm -- I mean, this isn't a punishment or anything. You know that, don't you? It's something we agreed to."

Starsky rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. "I know." He almost adds, _I know I deserve it_ , but stops himself. He's not playing that game. He's not going to whine, or wallow in guilt. _See, Hutch, see how miserable I am? Do you feel sorry for me? I'm a son of a bitch; I'm lower than a dachshund's dick; kick me, Hutch!_ Martyrdom never goes over well with Hutch, which is frustrating, because Starsky considers himself good at it.

"So what have you been doing?" Hutch asks, with the brisk air of someone changing the subject.

"Oh, this and that. Goin' to the movies. Reading. There's a bookstore down the street a few blocks. Watchin' TV. Gettin' drunk -- " He cuts himself off, rolling his eyes. "Well, I just did that once." _So far_.

"Alone?"

"No." Oddly, he feels no qualms about lying to Hutch. Not about this, anyway. "No, I went to a bar, met some guys, had a few laughs. Told 'em I was an off-duty cop and they bought me drinks. Said they were proud to drink with one of our brave boys in blue."

Hutch is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Starsky, don't drink alone, please. I hate to think of you sitting alone in a motel room, drinking."

"Hey, I told ya -- " he begins, and then the fight goes out of him. "Okay."

"You shouldn't be alone at all."

"I know. I should be home with you."

"You should be having a good time. Go out with girls, or -- whoever you want to go out with."

Starsky feels his mouth tighten defensively. "Get it out of my system, huh? That it?"

"That was kind of the idea, wasn't it?" Hutch asks, mildly.

"Hutch, I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry. It was stupid, and I don't know why I did it, and I'll never do it again, and -- " He abandons his resolve and lets his voice sink to a desperate whisper. "Please let me come home, Hutch. Please."

"Starsk, you lasted two weeks. Two weeks, after we said -- "

"I know, I know, but that's over! Hutch, I swear -- "

"You're not ready yet. You were all right with it before, when we just fucked each other when we felt like it and fucked anyone else we wanted in between, but narrowing it down to just you and me, living together and everything -- you're not ready."

God, he can't take much more of this. "Whaddaya want me to do, huh? You want me to beg? Well, I'm begging. I'll do anything you say. Just please, let me come home."

"You need to feel alive again, don't you?" Hutch's voice is gentle, and Starsky groans impatiently. He can't fight gentleness.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he says tiredly.

"I understand how it is. You want to feel like a man again, feel the blood flowing, feel your dick get hard as a rock. You came as close to dying as anyone can, and now you need to live. I know, I've felt the same way."

Starsky hears nothing beyond _feel your dick get hard as a rock_. Just the sound of those words, spoken in Hutch's deep, quiet voice, sends a wave of heat through his body. He lowers his hand, unconsciously, to his crotch and lets it rest there.

"Hutch," he whispers, "I want you. I don't want anybody else, I won't ever again, I promise."

"You _can't_ promise that. Starsk, go get laid, okay? Go out to the bars and bring someone back with you. Girls, guys, whoever. You need it. You've only got one more week of sick leave. After that, come home and we'll talk."

Starsky stares up at the ceiling. It's dirty. There's a faint brown stain where the roof has leaked. He hopes it doesn't rain for the next week.

"Okay," he says, finally. "Can -- can I call you every day now?"

"Sure," Hutch says, and Starsky knows he isn't imagining the false cheer in his partner's voice. Hutch isn't happy about this. Hutch misses him. Starsky clings to that.

"I love you." He doesn't know how to make it any plainer.

"I know," Hutch says. "Me, too."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Starsky replaces the receiver gently in its cradle.

He lies still for a while, eyes closed. Finally he gets up, puts his shoes on, and washes his face at the bathroom sink. His shirt's open halfway down his chest, and he scowls at his reflection and buttons it. He wonders if he'll ever get used to the scars.

He goes outside, but not to the Torino, which sits, repaired and beautiful as ever, in front of his door. Walking's good for him, the doctors said. He looks toward the motel office and sees another girl behind the desk, not the one who shot him down so decisively last night. This one's pretty too, and as he watches, she looks up, blinks, and smiles at him through the window. Her gaze lingers on him.

He smiles, too, but with no real enthusiasm. What he feels, more than anything, is simply tired.

He hesitates a moment, considering. Then he turns and heads down the street, toward the bookstore, and the bars.


End file.
